


Songs from Another Life

by helsinkibaby



Series: Inside the Tornado [3]
Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-26
Updated: 2011-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 19:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the night before everyone goes to Manchester. Third in the "Inside the Tornado" series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs from Another Life

There have got to be better ways of spending my first free evening in forever than this. OK, so forever might be a bit of an overstatement. It's not forever, it just seems like it. I've been working night and day for the last four weeks, ever since the announcement, going over legal briefs until I swear I'm going to go blind. The little writing doesn't even stay still on the page anymore; it's like it's dancing across the page. Have you ever seen the Congressional Rules on Impeachment doing the tango across the page? Of course, it could have been a rumba, or a Paso Doble. Definitely something Spanish though.

You see?

You see what this is doing to me?

And it's not just me who's walking the precipice of insanity I'll have you know. Much of the White House Counsel's office is in the same boat. So much so that Mr Babish has instituted a policy that one person gets an early mark every day. OK, his idea of an early mark is five o'clock in the evening, having been working from seven in the morning, but seeing as midnight is an acceptable close of business for most of us right about now, we're taking what we can get.

I should have plans for the evening. Exciting plans. Plans that require dressing up and making up and wearing shoes that will cripple me for the rest of the week. I should be out on the town, catching up with friends, having a good time.

Instead, I'm cleaning my apartment.

It's a truly sad indictment on my life that that's all I have the energy to do right now. Of course, it doesn't help that the man in my life is chained to his desk at the White House. And of course, tomorrow, he won't even be there. He'll be on his way to Manchester on Air Force One.

I stifle a sigh at that, and I'm disgusted with myself. I have never been one of those women who moon over their man; I've always been independent, never relied on anyone else. Although according to Simon, that was the problem in our relationship.

But it was never like it is with Leo when I was with Simon. Simon wanted me to rely on him all the time. I don't think he ever really knew me, knew who I really was. He liked the idea of me I think, the idea of a blonde Southern Belle hanging off his arm. When the blonde Southern Belle ended up having a brain and a spine and opinions of her own, he wasn't nearly so charmed. We were engaged by the time he realised the truth, and of course, I was so in love with him, or at least I thought I was, that I didn't see it, didn't want to see it until he was already holed up with some bimbo, who was just like me without the brain and the opinions. He told me that he'd been seeing her for months, that he was in love with her, that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

And I cried for days.

The thought of him doesn’t make me cry any more. In fact, I remember the immediate aftermath of our break-up, and I end up laughing to myself, leaving aside the cleaning for a moment to go in search of my tape collection in the living room. It doesn't take too long to find what I wanted to find and I pop the cassette into the player before going back to cleaning my kitchen.

In no time at all, the dulcet tones of Gloria Gaynor are echoing through the apartment, and I'm singing along as loudly as I can. After all, there's no-one here to hear me.

You see, I was devastated when Simon broke up with me. I was in law school at the time, and I was a mess. Couldn't think, couldn't study, didn't leave my room for days. Then Cassie, my college roommate called me up. She was in grad school in New York, and a mutual friend of ours had called her and told her what had happened. When she finished doing the happy dance of joy down the phone to him (she'd never liked Simon - that really should have been my first clue) she got on the phone to me, and told me that I was coming to New York City whether I liked it or not, and she was going to give me a weekend that I'd never forget.

The first night that I was there, she met me at the airport, took one look at me and pulled me into a hug before catching a cab to her place. And she'd prepared too. She had three kinds of chocolate ice cream, not to mention the largest chocolate cake that I've ever seen in my life.

And did I mention the tequila?

We stayed in that night, in our oldest sweats, eating junk food and watching movies. And not just any movies; Cassie had picked them out carefully. When Harry Met Sally because it normally made me laugh. Dirty Dancing because no-one could be miserable through The Time of my Life. And Pure Country. Because it's George Strait, and what more do you need in a movie?

At this point, I should inform you that Cassie is from Texas, loves her country music, and thinks that George Strait is a God.

I'd never heard much of his music before college, but four years of living with Cassie will turn you into a fan.

In between the films and the junk food, she told me all the reasons why Simon was an idiot, why he wasn't good enough for me and why I was better off without him.

It's amazing how much sense she made after all that chocolate and tequila. That was around the time that I swore off all men forever, telling her that I'd never let another man get that close to me again, that I'd never let myself get hurt like that again.

I never have. Not until now.

The next morning, Cassie dragged me out of bed, yanking open the curtains to let the sunshine in. Not that I thanked her for that mind you, I had the hangover from hell. I'm really not a drinker, and I'd been sick most of the night. Not that that mattered to Cassie at all. She dragged me, literally, out of bed and threw me into the shower, and we went shopping that whole afternoon. There wasn't a clothes shop in New York that we didn't go to, and she insisted that we both buy at least one new outfit so that we could go out on the town that night.

I still have that outfit at the back of my closet, although Lord knows why. I only wore it once, and highly doubt that I'll ever wear it again. The skirt is short enough to be classified as a belt, yet it nonetheless has a slit up the side that must have had my grandmother rolling over in her grave. The top is strappy and spangley and glittery, with no back and very little front. And the boots that Cassie talked me into are knee high, with pencil thin stiletto heels, four inches high.

By the time Cassie was done with my hair and makeup, I didn't even recognise myself.

And I kinda liked the feeling.

Which might explain how, even with considerably less tequila than the previous night, I still found myself up on stage in a karaoke bar, singing I Will Survive. To, I might add, a rousing reception.

I'm so caught up in my memories that I find myself not only singing now but also dancing as the tape continues with some of the other songs that we sang and danced to that weekend, shimmying around the kitchen as I clean the countertops, and I'm not paying any attention to anything else.

Thus it's entirely predictable that when I turn around, Leo is standing there, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed and a smile on his face. And I'm so shocked and so mortified that I scream and throw the cloth in my hand halfway across the kitchen.

"Don't let me stop you," he tells me, and I can hear the laughter underneath the surface. That's all that it takes to banish my embarrassment, and I find myself laughing as I pick the cloth up off the floor, washing my hands clean before going over to him. He's laughing too as he wraps his arms around me, kissing me quickly before he straightens again. "This is what I miss when I work late?"

"Not all the time," I tell him, my gaze flying to the clock on the wall. And I look back to him in surprise because I knew that I couldn't have lost track of time that much. "What are you doing here so early?"

"I heard there might be a repeat performance of Blame it on the Bossa Nova," he deadpans, and I smack his chest lightly. "C'mon, the President and Sam saw you dance in your bathrobe, what do I get?" He pulls back just slightly to see the T-shirt I'm wearing, and his eyebrows lift in surprise.

I find myself blushing again, knowing that surely hell would freeze over before I let anyone else see me in this. "Seeing your Conservative Republican girlfriend in a Bartlet for America T-shirt isn't enough for you?" I ask him. It was once upon a time his shirt, but I may have commandeered it one night when I stayed over at his place.

"That'll do," he tells me, lowering his lips to mine for another kiss.

When we pull away, the music has changed. This time, a slow ballad drifts from the speakers, and I smile to myself as I recognise the song. My arms have long since gone around his neck and his are around my waist, and without either one of us suggesting it, we find ourselves swaying to George.

I knew Cassie had a point about that man.

"What's with the weird music?" Leo asks me after a verse.

I shrug, looking up at him. "Mix tape that Cassie made for me." He nods, having heard all about Cassie, my crazy college roommate. "It's a long story."

"I won't ask."

"Good."

"This is a pretty song."

"It really is."

We sway in silence to the lyrics for the rest of the song, and Patrick Swayze is just beginning to tell someone that she's like the wind when Leo speaks again. "You know, there are going to be days ahead where it starts to storm."

He's quoting the bridge of the song that we just danced to, and I know what he's trying to tell me. Bad and all as these last four weeks have been, it's only the tip of the iceberg. This is nothing compared to what's going to happen after they officially kick off the re-election campaign, when the first round of subpoenas come out. It's going to get worse before it gets better, and we're not in for an easy ride over the next few weeks and months. We both know that, and I get the feeling sometimes that he thinks that I'm going to discover all of a sudden that this isn't what I want anymore, that I’m going to find out that none of this is worth it.

That's he's not worth the pain and suffering that he thinks I'm going to go through.

But I know that he is.

"Well then," I respond, threading my fingers through his hair as I pull him to me again. "You've got the promise of my love to keep you warm."

We kiss again and things are just getting interesting when his cell phone rings. We spring apart, and he mutters a sound of disgust, his irritation only becoming plainer when he speaks into the other end. Once I hear the name Bruno, I know that the call is going to be long, not pretty and likely ending in bloodshed, so while he goes into the living room to take the call, snapping off the stereo as he does, I start on the preparations for tonight's dinner. Pasta I think. Something quick and easy, yet filling, and I know I've got a jar of sauce somewhere.

He spends so long on the phone to Bruno that when he comes back to the kitchen, snaking his arms around his neck and placing a kiss on the side of my neck, the water is bubbling merrily in the pot and the pasta is halfway done. "I'm sorry," he tells me.

I turn to look at him, keeping one arm stirring the pot and really look at him. His jacket is gone, as is his tie, and his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows. But whereas he looked quite relaxed when we were dancing in the kitchen earlier, now he's taut as a drawn bow again.

"What did Bruno want?"

"More talk about the speech." He sighs heavily, one hand on his hip, the other resting on the counter as he faces me. "I swear, Toby's either going to kill him and Doug, or they're going to kill Toby. And I'm not so sure I care which."

He sounds tired. He looks tired. And why shouldn't he? He's been putting eighteen and twenty hour days in at the White House, and while Margaret does her best for him, I know there's days where he goes without eating. Which is why I always try to get something into him when he comes home, no matter how late or how early it is. Someone has to try to take care of him. But I’m looking at him now, and I'm wondering how well it's working. He looks older than I've ever seen him. Even when I first met him in his office that day, even knowing his age, knowing what he'd been through in his life, I never thought of him as old. I never thought of him as my father's age.

But I swear he's aged twenty years in the last four weeks.

I drop the spoon, going over to him, laying one hand on his cheek. "How are you?" I ask him.

"I'm ok," he tells me, and I think that at this stage, that's an automatic answer from him, to whomever might be asking it.

So I give him my best sceptical look and he smiles down at me and shakes his head. "Did you eat today?" I ask him.

He chuckles at that. "What are you, my mother?"

"I should hope not." I give him what I hope is a saucy grin.

"Margaret got me something at lunchtime."

"But did you eat it?" He looks away from me sheepishly, and I'm guessing that that means that he may have eaten some, but not all, of whatever nutritionally balanced meal that Margaret picked out. "You need to take better care of yourself Leo. You look like death on a triscuit."

He doesn't say anything to that, not that I expect him to. He's told me before that he's not used to this; not used to having someone fuss over him like this. Even before his separation from Jenny, she never used to act like this he said, not once they got to the White House anyway.

"We're all feeling the pinch." That's as close as he's going to come to an acknowledgement of how bad they're all feeling. "Bruno's people are driving Toby and Sam crazy, Josh is up the walls after the tobacco release, and CJ…" His voice trails off helplessly and I bite my tongue.

I will not have this conversation with him again, not after the last several times. The press have been going after CJ hard in every briefing, and seeing her around the White House, she's barely recognisable as the strong, proud woman I was used to seeing around the White House. I remember looking at the Press Conference in Mr Babish's office, thinking how well she was doing, wishing I could be that put together, that confident. And then she had that disastrous briefing the next day, and Leo benched her in favour of Nancy McNally. I told him then that it was a mistake; in fact, that led to what we refer to our as first fight as a couple. It was over quickly, a storm in a teacup more than anything else, but the things that I predicted that night have come to pass. The press corps as a whole aren't recognising CJ's authority like they should; they push and they push, and nothing is sacred to them.

"Do you know," His voice is quiet when he speaks. "That in 1936, at the Democratic convention, FDR actually fell on his way to the podium to give his keynote address? The White House Press Corps all knew about his disability, but they didn't write anything about it, ever. And at the convention, when he went down, they stood, en masse, and blocked the view of the other photographers. Stopped them getting any pictures of it." There's a look of amazement on his face. "They actually helped him cover it up, because they knew he was a good man."

"It's a different world," I tell him sadly, snapping off the heat and leaving the pasta to sit for a few minutes. I go to him and wrap my arms around him, feel him drop a kiss on the top of my head.

"I know," he sighs. "I know."

We stand in silence for a second like that before I pull away, kissing his lips quickly. "I hope you're hungry," I tell him, and I'm only a step away from him when he pulls me back against him, holding me to him and placing kisses along my neck.

"Ravenous," he murmurs between kisses.

I laugh and smack his hands. "Food first. Other stuff later. We've got plenty of time"

He still looks tired, but his eyes are alive when he says, "Promise?"

And I can't help but smile back, remembering the song that we danced to earlier on. Because I know that it doesn't matter what happens at work, what happens with the President, how long it goes on. I'm going to be here, with him, for as long as it takes, sharing all the love and laughter that a lifetime will allow.

"I cross my heart."


End file.
